


Devil's Ivy

by Pondermoniums



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Billy Hargrove Has a Crush on Steve Harrington, Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy and Max Never Moved to Hawkins, Contracts, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Long-haired Billy, M/M, Mob Boss Billy Hargrove, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Season/Series 03, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Harrington, Slow Burn, Steve Moves to the City, Touch-Starved, man bun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pondermoniums/pseuds/Pondermoniums
Summary: "If someone were to tell Steve that he would be caught between mafia bullshit and top secret government plots, he might’ve just stayed and let himself rot in Hawkins."Steve has left Hawkins for a hard restart in the city. And so far, he's enjoying it. Best decision he could've made, given the circumstances he left behind and the minimal prospects ahead of him. And when an offer too good to refuse is offered by one Mr. Hargrove, Steve doesn't say no.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 54
Kudos: 155





	1. Prologue and Ch. 1 ~ First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> I am once again making a story in an unknown decade and a nameless city lol also, I'm just throwing this onto ao3 without really knowing what I'm doing (how all good things start right??). I have a story in mind but if you're new to me as a writer, Hi, I'm Ponder, and I have way too many Harringrove stories to finish lol so updates here will be slow.

**_• Prologue •_ **

If someone were to tell Steve that he would be caught between mafia bullshit and top secret government plots, he might’ve just stayed and let himself rot in Hawkins.

That his life was a bad movie that couldn’t decide between sci-fi or crime thriller, and insisted on being both.

_“If they found out that we told anyone—They could put us in jail. Okay? Or worse, they could destroy our families. They can do anything they want.”_

If someone had told him that his own, stupid mouth had predicted his constant circumstances, Steve might’ve just dropped out of high school. Quit while he was ahead. Run away to Mexico or someplace warm where he could be a proper nobody, keep his mouth shut, and never have to see guns, retrofitted weapons, or bloody, grey, unnatural things.

But Steve could only see behind him.

_**• 1 ~ First Sight •** _

Steve turned the corner of the landing and saw two men standing ahead in the corridor. He knew expensive suits when he saw them, and their black on black ensembles were clean, pressed, and made light move in a way that only pricey fabrics could.

Contrarily, Steve adjusted his jeans while he breathed a little heavy from the unending flights of stairs. Too many times getting stuck in the elevator resulted in the decision to take the stairs, but he was almost in shape enough to handle it.

He should’ve just turned his ass around and come back later. But he had seen guys like this enough times to know that a discrete entrance was a thing of courtesy, not an obligation.

They already had eyes on him, so he sighed and fixed the tote bag of groceries on his shoulder. He trudged forward. “Hey, guys. Owens can’t just call, now?”

The guys waited for Steve to draw even with them. At least, he thought so, but when he finally stood with them, neither said anything. Not a single expression move over or under their faces. Steve sure as hell frowned, before he did a double take at the door they stood in front of. It wasn’t his.

“Oh. Uh…you’re not here for me…are you?”

A spark of amusement moved the lips of one of them, who gently shook his head.

Steve’s features opened and then he promptly shut his mouth with a nod. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. ‘Scuse me.”

It should’ve been that simple. Oops, and move on. When Steve went to the last door in the hall and locked it behind him, when he didn’t stir even when dull thumps and muffled whines moved through the walls, he should have been clear as the sky. Free as a bird. As unbothered as somebody with a speed dial number to a secret government scientist can possibly be.

But, no. Steve is Steve. When the noise quieted down and heavy footfalls finally went down the stairs, he ventured out of his apartment and knocked on his neighbor’s door.

It took a while, but when the guy opened the door, Steve wasn’t surprised to see a weak paper towel held to his bleeding face. Steve held up a first aid kit with a wiggle. “Want some help?”

He didn’t ask. He figured loan sharks or something he’d only ever heard about and didn’t believe actually existed. But Steve wasn’t an authority on was did or did not exist.

Then because it was Saturday, he went to a diner down the road. On Saturday nights, he bussed tables. Technically Steve worked three jobs, but he didn’t always include this one in the roster because he actually enjoyed it. He didn’t need a uniform. He could shut his brain off and just pick things up off of tables, lather, rinse, repeat.

In the dark and frigid, wet city, the diner was a tiny, hot oasis owned by a nice older lady who didn’t take any shit from the old guys who came in at 5am for coffee and didn’t seem to leave until eleven at night. Steve liked them a lot. They didn’t treat him like he was less than because he picked up their empty cups instead of delivering full ones. They just wanted company. Steve did too, really.

The diner was like a little Twilight Zone episode. It felt kind of timeless in the little cube of fluorescent light, green vinyl booths, and matching pothos plants growing like long, shaggy wigs on the walls.

“The Devil’s Ivy, Clary! There’s a reason it’s called that!” declared one of the grouchier patrons. Steve slid one of the emergency bags of tiny marshmallows to the boss’s granddaughter who waitressed during his shifts. She dropped a heap of them into the man’s next mug of coffee.

“Maybe that’s why I like it so much,” the boss crooned, taking the mug out of her granddaughter’s hand and setting it down so marshmallows toppled out of it. “And that’s Clarice, to you. Eat your marshmallows and shut the hell up.”

Steve had it on good authority that people she liked could call her Clary or, if you were real special, Cici.

The diner just…stripped people bare in a way that no other place could. Steve was some Indiana bumpkin bussing tables because he didn’t have the brains or paperwork to be elsewhere. The guy munching on his marshmallows didn’t have a spouse waiting for him. None of them did. Why else were they here?

It wasn’t all sad, though.

Steve set his dish tub on the steel counter in the kitchen and crossed his forearms in the window. “You gotta get out of here while you’re still young. It’s widower o’clock.”

The waitress snorted and rotated to mirror his stance in the food window. “It’s not that bad, and I can’t leave you behind. These old farts would eat you alive.”

“Aw, thanks.” He scratched at his stubble. One of the perks of his twenties: he finally had something of a beard to work with. It wasn’t worth writing home about, and it took about three days after shaving to really make an appearance, but hey, small victories. “I think I can hold my own, though.”

“You realize Mr. Creek is gay, right? That’s why he tips you.”

Steve definitely did not know that. His mouth continued to hang open like he meant to use it but the words failed him until, “I don’t—You know what—I don’t think someone’s orientation obligates them to tip. And if it does, then the gays are all right. Frankly, bring more of ‘em in. Because I’m just as much of a hot piece of ass as you, who deserves tips.”

She burst into laughter, which he shared, but the two of them combined was a little too rowdy for Clarice. “Max! You can start your clean up if you have nothing else to do.”

Max’s head fell back with annoyance, but she tightened her ponytail and reached over for the spray bottle and dishtowels. “Why am _I_ the one who’s slacking off?”

“We all have higher standards for you,” Steve replied before theatrically walking out of view from the window with his voice fading. “Get out while you _caaann_ …”

Steve liked the diner for a lot of reasons. Clarice paid him an actual wage, and the vibe of the place attracted good people who tipped both the waitress and the busboy. He originally warmed up to the place, and vice versa, because it was nearby. He became a regular, and one of the few young guys who didn’t irritate the shit out of Max. Clarice was grateful enough to offer him a job, and Max had somebody who wasn’t afraid to dump a tub of dirty dishes over someone’s head because a hand wandered too far.

Now he took the time to sort out his pocket full of singles and coins…and a coupon for new jeans at the nearest outlet. He huffed a laugh at his assortment of tips and frowned a little at his legs. Sure, his jeans were getting a little old; definitely threadbare in the knees considering the air outside smelled of ice and snow on the way.

The bell on the door sang from newcomers entering, and Steve folded his tips to stuff neatly inside his coat pocket hanging on the wall in the staff alcove. He pat the cook on the shoulder in passing, who was intent on going outside for a smoke break. “Take it easy, or Cici will hunt you down.”

“This late, I’m not making anything other than pancakes. They can wait.”

For now, Max poured them coffee and trailed after Steve to wipe tables down after he cleared them off. Pieces of conversation about sports drifted around the room until someone got ahold of the remote for the television mounted to the corner of the room. Considering the sparse patrons were men, the place remained surprisingly quiet with a game on the television. Steve chose to focus more on how close the people were to finishing their coffees and leaving…

Blood soaking through bandages.

The last group to come in consisted of four men who spread out between two booths. One of them had knuckles bleeding through his bandages. Steve noticed his other hand to be in similar condition: dark read knuckles swelling purple but not as bad as his right hand. It took a moment, but Steve remembered the two men from the hallway, their black suits and coats draped over the vinyl booth in the warmth of the diner.

Steve swallowed and intercepted Max moving with the coffeepot. “Get out of here. I’ll finish up.”

She absorbed that and frowned. “I’ve got an hour—”

 _“Then stay in the back,”_ he grit. Max blinked several times before her eyes flicked to the side where the men sat. Steve reassured, “I’ve got it.”

“Don’t trust the handle. It wiggles,” she said, relinquishing the coffee pot. Thankfully, the goons were the type to ignore service industry workers. Steve poured coffee, refilled water cups, and all they did was lean around him to see the television.

They didn’t stay long, and a moment after they filed out—leaving decent, albeit unimpressive tips—Clarice announced, “Max, honey, your ride is here.”

Stress factors alleviated, Steve was free to tease, “Since when do you have a chauffer?”

Max stood from the booth in which Clarice sat doing admin paperwork and shrugged into her coat. Steve pinched the sleeve when she got caught to keep it from getting away from her. “I’m not freezing my ass off if I can help it. See you next week. You gotta wake up Mr. Dean.”

They both looked at the man and his soggy marshmallows, snoring into the scarf wrapped up to his nose.

Outside, the night air shocks the skin of Max’s face, it’s so cold. It’s a wonder the puddles aren’t black ice. Her breath fogs around her as she tugs on the door handle of the glossy black car until it unlocks. She slid into the _nice_ interior, aglow with the neon indigo dash accents.

Max looked at the empty street ahead and looked at the driver. “Hello? You’re not allowed to park here.”

But the man is looking inside the diner, his gaze unnervingly steady. “Who’s he?”

“Who?” Max parroted as she looked through the windows at Steve moving with a dance in his step. Clarice was always sweet on him and let him choose the music during closing. “Steve?”

She realized her mistake the moment her driver’s gaze…changed. It was subtle. But she knew him well enough to know what thoughts looked like moving behind those blue eyes, made indigo from the dash. “Steve is nice. Leave him alone. _Billy?_ ”

Billy slowly released his gaze like a hunter unwilling to resign a target. He turned to face the road without a reply. The car pulled away smoothly from the curb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know what you think? I wrote it fast and loose (but that's how I write everything haha). This was super inspired by [ToaStranger's Mob Boss Billy / fake marriage au,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837288/chapters/49534433) and I wanted to explore my own version of a fake/contract relationship that isn't so fake <3
> 
> [Even though I already have a mafia au going *cough*](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303800/chapters/64045192)


	2. Harrington

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your super kind reception of chapter 1! I got overzealous and ploughed into chapter 2 haha Hope you enjoy!

For the most part, Steve liked his other two jobs. Despite them largely being just shy of bowing and serving.

On Sundays, Mondays, and sometimes more if he can pick up other peoples’ shifts, he donned a starched, white shirt, a matching waistcoat, and black slacks for the country club just outside of the city. When he’d interviewed for the job, he knew he got it within five minutes—being raised in his parents’ club gave him that advantage—and when his boss asked him if he had any questions, Steve had proffered, “Why is it called a country club? It’s a vineyard and there’s no golf.”

He forgot how easily these people got insulted. Whatever warmth the man had for him froze over then and there, but he marked Steve off as an idiot instead of a liability.

Steve was getting used to that. He didn’t really like it, but morons got paid if they were on time, and the nicer he was, the more neglected wives or trophy husbands tipped. So he kept his mouth shut apart from focusing small talk in the direction of the people paying him, and made sure to keep his shirts white and slacks free of lint.

For the rest of the week, he doubled up on the black slacks, dyed whatever collared shirts he had black with cheap dye, and made his way over to one of the city’s big hotels and casinos. After last weekend’s happenstance, it seemed a little ironic for Steve to don black on black, but it made his brass name tag pop along with the lighter notes of his hair. He looked good in black, what could he say?

The waiters alternated between the restaurant and casino, and today he strolled under the ornate garlands and lights spiraling around the columns and doorways of the hotel. “All decked for the holidays,” he smiled to a coworker in passing. Everyone between the bellhops, to the card dealers, and floor managers had the same energy: a dulled holiday cheer, weighed down by the promise of way more people to tolerate despite only being November.

He rolled up his sleeves and raked a hand through his hair. It was going to be a busy night.

* * *

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t forget the busboy,” Steve ordered before any of his coworkers could so much as reach for their coats. It had taken a lot of arguments and nearly getting fired—twice—for causing unrest with his coworkers, but after some managerial intervening, it became a rule to give ten percent of your tips to the busboys. For a high rolling hotel officially in the holiday season, this meant giving up quite a sum.

Steve never divulged that he was a busboy elsewhere, but he knew the shy smiles of gratitude when he saw them, and tonight, one of them actually spoke up.

“Thanks, Steve. My heating went out yesterday and my landlord is being a real prick about it.”

“Yeah, I’ve got three space heaters, myself.” He sighed as his head emerged through a thick, cable sweater and he reached for his parka. “A worthy investment? Electric sheets and blankets.”

“They make electric sheets?”

“Ooh yes,” he laughed breathily, shutting his staffroom locker. “My mom wouldn’t let me move here unless I had one. Literally life saving. Have a good night.”

He certainly looked forward to his bed as he forewent cab fare and shuffled his way along the sidewalks. Really, he liked the winter, but he did not care for wind one bit. When he reached his apartment building, his voice escaped with his gasps of relief as he sucked in the warm, still air. He stared up the winding flights before unzipping his coat and climbing the stairs…

Nearly at his floor—the top one, his lungs could attest—he realized too late that someone was on their way down. “Hah, man. Sorry,” he tried to squish against the banister out of the way, but hands gripped the front of his parka.

“The guy next door looks almost pretty again.”

“Huh?” he blurted. Steve’s brain processed how these were the guys who had hustled his neighbor, but his jackrabbiting heart didn’t allow for much else.

“It hasn’t been a week and he looks good. You cleaned him up nice. Where’d you learn that?”

A trick question. But Steve’s eyes flicked between the burly man and his black goatee, and the similarly built men behind him. And the fact that the wall was on _their_ side, whereas the banister and a five-story drop were behind Steve. “Um.”

“Um? So you’re not a nurse? The medical types usually have some mental training for…stressful situations.”

And then Steve’s brain did what it always does: it turns off and defaults to bristled honesty. “I just saw a guy who could use a band-aid. That’s all. I’ve cleaned up my own face enough to know how.”

“Good,” he crooned, but his grip tightened on Steve’s clothes. Steve had never fancied himself afraid of heights, but now was a terrifying place to start. “Good…if you were a nurse, we might have to do something about you. Nurses have an obligation to tattle.”

“I’m not a nurse! I’m nobody! Jesus Christ.” His shoulders slumped at the irony of his life. History really does repeat.

“You sure about that?”

“I’m a busboy and a peacocking waiter! That’s all!”

The same guy as before laughed. The man holding him nodded as he finished, “A pretty one too. Make sure you stay nobody, then. Or you’ll need a nurse to make you pretty again.”

He threw Steve down the stairs. The surprise in gravity tipping sideways instead of backwards made him unprepared for the landing…and he just…kept…going. The wall on the fourth floor landing finally caught him, but by then Steve’s lungs were empty. The back of his neck ached from tumbling backwards, his body coiled tight against impact and making it hard to breathe.

Then footsteps followed him down, and Steve once again pressed himself out of the way of heavy, black loafers—

“Argh!” he coughed.

Steel toed loafers.

Two of them kicked him on their way past, but the last one reached down for Steve’s hair, and gripped it so Steve had to look at him. His body was beginning to shiver, verging on convulsing because he need _air_ and to stop hurting.

“Just want to remember your face.” He set Steve’s head down with a _pat pat_.

He waited for the footfalls to move all the way down the stairs, and to hear the distant creak of the entrance opening and slamming closed. The way it bounced off of the lobby tile and up the stairs. Steve waited a little longer, just in case his body volunteered warning bells. When none came, he began the slow climb to his feet, and further to his apartment.

The neighbor’s door stayed firmly shut as he passed, with not a sound coming through it. Steve preferred it that way, especially after he walked through his broken-into apartment. He might’ve felt inclined to throw the guy down the stairs too, looking at the thrashed state of things. He’d always liked his place; the slanted ceiling on one side granted him skylights that provided lofty, gold, morning light. Now they illuminated drawers pulled out and overturned. A standing shelf knocked over. Mounted shelves ripped out of the walls. Mattress thrown against the wall and bedframe kicked askew.

As Steve flicked the light switch, he was almost certain there wasn’t anything missing. Just a polite warning.

Carefully stepping over it all, he went to the bathroom. He knew that the sooner he tended to injuries, the sooner they healed….

The components of his first aid kit floated in the toilet bowl.

Since the bathroom was small enough, he went about cleaning it first: haphazardly reorganizing the cabinet under the sink, scooping everything out of the toilet for the trash, and washing his hands for a solid three minutes. Before he tried to undress and see the damage, he went through his apartment and tidied the important stuff: putting his mattress back on its frame, turning on the space heaters, and making sure fire hazards were dealt with.

Lifting his arms came surprisingly easy. Breathing less so. Steve couldn’t tell if his nape was that badly bruised or if shock had taken over his system. Regardless, stretching his body to his full height, or to lean backward and stretch his stomach and open his ribs proved the real agony. His body wanted to stay curled forward to protect itself. He decided to take a hot shower to loosen everything up, and then grimaced over the sink as he held a frigid washcloth against his torso since he had no idea where the hell his ice tray had gone.

After some painkillers, a lot of water, and a can of soup, Steve angled a chair under the doorknob and went to sleep.

* * *

He had to get through Friday before he could rest on Saturday. Luckily his shift at the hotel was in the casino, which involved carrying small trays of drinks everywhere.

Because come Saturday morning, Steve was sore, tired, and just the idea of stretching his muscles made him ache in a bad way. He tried nonetheless, causing tears of pain to slide over his face as he worked to at least keep a semi-full range of movement available to him. Then he had to choose between calling the landlord, or resting before his shift at the diner.

After returning the large pieces of furniture where they belonged, he went back to bed.

* * *

The afternoon walk to the diner rewarded him with snowflakes drifting from the sky. The first snow of the season, even if it wasn’t enough to coat the streets. Just enough to get kids excited and to speckle the faux fur lining of Steve’s hood before he entered the heat of the diner.

Hiding out in the kitchen, he treated himself to a side of silver dollar pancakes before Max busted him. “Steve! Two groups just left. Let’s go!”

“Okayokayokay,” he mumbled around a sausage patty. Wiping his face and grabbing the dish bin, he scooted past Max holding the swinging door for him.

When he finished the first table and moved on to the second right next to it, he did a double take at Max scrutinizing him. “What?”

“Is your neck okay? It’s kinda…did you get a new coat?”

A curt laugh burst out of him. “No? What d’you mean?”

She sprayed the table and threw the dishtowel over it. “Steve, your neck is like, stained purple or—”

“Woo! Dearie,” one of their elderly patrons hacked a laugh. “Some things you don’t want the answers to. Or ya do, but not in polite society.”

Max openly winced around a, “Huh?” while Steve’s jaw dropped.

“Nothing! He means nothing. Just—”

“ _Ooh_ ,” Max sighed. “Sex bruises…” And then it really dawned on her. “Ew. Steve.”

“These are not sex bruises! They’re completely on the wrong side for that!” he hissed.

She snorted loudly, barely clapping a hand over her mouth to stop her from guffawing. Steve meanwhile, turned on the old man with hair as white as the snow outside. “Mr. Hickory, don’t put ideas into her head.”

A weathered hand lethargically swat through the air, batting that aside. “Young ladies, especially Cici’s little girl, know things. I’m hardly producing new ideas.”

“Okay, fair, but maybe less at _my_ expense, _huh_ —”

The word shoved right into a pained, strangled cough as Max got out of the booth she was cleaning and bumped into the dish bin he carried. It went right into his diaphragm and belly. It slipped right out of his grasp, crashing— _loudly_ —to the floor, as he steadied himself on the back of a booth. Some obnoxious veterans of the restaurant industry applauded, but Max was gaping at Steve’s watery eyes, the pale, sweaty forehead, and the hand on his abdomen.

“Steve! Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” she gasped, but Clarice swooped between them.

“In the back, Steve. Now.”

“I’m—” he swallowed and croaked, “I’m fine—”

“And I’m not repeating myself.”

That silenced the room. Steve tried not to hang his head too low as he obeyed and went to the office through the kitchen. A combination of a pantry, office, and a storage closet, it housed a desk, a filing cabinet tower, and a safe alongside the mops and shelves of dishware and boxed goods.

Clarice followed him in. “Shirt up.”

If any of his other bosses had told him to bare himself, he might’ve forewent the pink slip and thrown a fist. But Clarice got holiday cards from his mother, for god sake. Her, Max, and this diner were his safe spot outside of his apartment. So he lifted his shirt, all the way over his head so that his back and nape were visible too.

Clarice circled him with a hand on his shoulder to make him stay put. “Is anything broken?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, alright.” Which meant she didn’t trust him. He didn’t altogether mind, though, the warm palms that tested the curve of his ribs and the careful fingers that navigated his pressure tolerance. When she went around to his backside, she exhaled, “What the hell happened to you?”

Max arrived, then, quietly shutting the office door behind her while openly taking in the long bruises marking the treads of stairs on his back. He answered, “I fell down the stairs.”

“Yeah,” Clarice scoffed mildly as she gripped his head and made him straighten so her thumbs could inspect the damage of his neck.

Steve sighed so hard his eyes closed. “What about my face makes people not trust me?”

“I trust you. But I don’t believe you. It’s a miracle nothing’s broken, from what I can see.”

Steve huffed a laugh but his voice had taken a higher pitch, weak and lofty from feeling fragile under gentle hands. “That’s me. Full of miracles.”

“Someone pushed you down the stairs?” Max had her eyes on his stomach when she said it. One of the bruises still had a rather distinct heel and outline.

He shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. I was practically dressed in padding.”

“What did he look like?”

“Max. I mean it. It’s okay—ah!”

“Hush,” Clarice scolded, wiping something from a tube on his body.

“What is that?” He sniffed and smelled eucalyptus and peppermint.

“It’s a numbing balm. Hold still.”

He held the hair of his nape up while she administered the balm, and he decided in short order that he liked it a lot. The effect was cold and tingly, but it gradually seeped into his skin, taking away half of the ache.

Max pressed, “What did the guy look like? Was there more than one?”

Clarice lifted her head, “Max, folks are still outside. We’ll be done here soon.”

“But—”

“Go.”

She practically stomped through the kitchen, the office door swinging shut in her wake. Steve knew the question before it came. “Did you do something to deserve this?”

He sighed, long and slow. “I just helped my neighbor clean himself up. They didn’t like that. The guys who hustled him were in here last Saturday.”

Her hands paused on him, but not for long. “They changed the tv channel.”

“Yeah,” he all but whispered. “They made it pretty clear that they wanted everyone out of their business. I don’t want you or Max getting in trouble because of me.”

“If you’re waiting to be fired, you might as well set up camp in the old church graveyard six blocks down.”

Steve tried to smile. But it didn’t really come.

His gaze drifted toward the floor. “That means a lot.”

“I mean it. I expect to see you here next week. Get dressed. Did they do anything else to you?”

“No,” he said while ducking into his dark green t-shirt. The Hawkins High print had long since been washed off of it. “They roughed up my place, just to prove they don’t give a shit about locks, but that’s all.”

“You know it’s better if you stay with somebody.” She eased a pencil into her auburn hair streaked with white to scratch her scalp.

“Honestly, I doubt my neighbor will be around long after the noise he’s caused. My building is big on noise complaints. The trouble should follow him out.”

Clarice pursed her lips, far from appeased, but she rubbed the leftover balm over her metacarpals and declared, “Get out there before Hickory tries to set Max up with his grandson again.”

* * *

Max eyed the trail of smoke leaving the driver’s window as she marched across the street. Throwing herself into the passenger seat, her force on the door prompted Billy to utter, “Hey, leave the attitude outside—”

“I told you to leave him alone.”

Hooded eyes dragged to her. Max could tell from the cigarette alone that Billy’d had a _long_ day. But so had Steve, and Billy’s gaze flicked up to the diner windows before he turned away to take a drag. “I didn’t touch your busboy.”

“Somebody did. They threw him down a flight of stairs.” Billy’s head didn’t jerk at that, but she definitely had his attention, and…his surprise. They stared each other down, her trying and failing to read beyond what he gave her. “Tell me you didn’t send someone to terrorize him.”

The cigarette he held to the window crack rolled between his fingers. “You like him that much?”

“No! I don’t _like_ him, but he’s my friend. He’s walking around like he has to concentrate on _breathing_ , Billy—”

“ _Fine_. Jesus…” He slotted the filter out the window and pulled the trigger button on the door to close it. “What do you know about him?”

She hesitated. “Not…much? Steve wouldn’t tell me anything about the guy or guys who pushed him, but there’s a shoe print on his stomach and a ladder of bruises on his back.”

She couldn’t say when it happened. Maybe she blinked or looked away for a second too long, but Billy had turned to fully face her. And having all of Billy pointed in your direction felt a bit too much like a gun barrel and a twitchy finger. “I meant _Steve_. What do you know about him?”

Her brows furrowed. “Why?”

“Plenty of people deserve what they get. Your diner angel might not be who you think he is.”

“If what he says is true, then he doesn’t even have time for shit like that. He works three jobs. He considers working _here_ his day off.”

Billy’s eyes drifted off her to survey the diner. “Where does he work?”

“I don’t know. He waiters at some hotel. He tells us stories when funny things happen but not much else. The other place is outside of town.”

“Out with it, Max.”

“I think he said something about a vineyard!” she procured exasperatedly. “But it was a long time ago.”

“Did he get pushed down the stairs at one of these places?”

“No. Where he lived.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. The cook overheard him and Nanna talking, thank god.”

“Nobody likes a snitch, Max.”

“Whatever. Steve said the guys were around because of his neighbor. It didn’t sound like Steve really had anything to do with it apart from, like…helping him after he got beat up? But Steve said the guys were here, at the diner, last week. He took the last hour of my shift because he recognized them.”

Billy had his full focus on the diner now. His arm leaned on the steering wheel as he rubbed a finger under his lips. “So they know where he lives and works.”

“I guess, but I didn’t hear them say anything the whole time that wasn’t to do with sports. They pretty much ignored us the whole time, but Steve told me to stay in the back anyways.”

She finally followed his steady gaze to the diner windows. Steve moved a mop over the floors, wincing slightly as he straightened back up to talk to Clarice.

“What’s his last name?”

She peered at him. “Why?”

“Well do you know where he lives?”

Her eyes darted around the car as if Billy’s train of thought might be outlined by indigo neon. “No?”

He blinked, and let his eyes slide to her. “I need to know what his neighbor’s been up to. If you can’t tell me where he lives, then I need his name.”

Max inhaled and looked away defiantly. Grinding her jaw, she peeked back at the diner, where Steve was talking and raking his fingers through his hair. A nervous habit of his. Then his long arms waved through the air, gesturing alongside whatever he and Clarice and the cook were speaking animatedly about. Laughing. Steve was one of the few people who could make her nanna laugh like that…

He put a hand in his shirt collar, tugging on it as a spark of panic moved over his eyes. His pain or need to breathe, or both, sliced through his mirth. And then he nodded to whatever was said, and bowed once more over the mop bucket like nothing had happened.

“Harrington,” Max relinquished quietly. “Steve Harrington.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted Billy and Steve to meet in this one but it got long enough. They shall in the next! We gotta get. This. Show. Moving! But thank you for enduring my exposition haha
> 
> And as someone who has fallen out of their chair and landed on their neck........yeah, it hurts for a few days lol 
> 
> [Twitter~](https://twitter.com/Pondermoniums)  
> [Tumblr~](http://pondermoniums.tumblr.com/)


	3. The Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your reception of this fic ç_ç honestly such a wonderful surprise and a lovely holiday gift <3
> 
> So my gift to you: long haired Billy~

“Another day as an albino penguin.”

Steve moved a hand over his stiff, white shirt and waistcoat. An unlikely perk, he supposed, being unable to bend forward without wrinkling his uniform. But with the bruises healing on his body, having the stiff fabric encase him was a pleasant binding.

“It’s not so bad,” he replied to the assistant manager, who distinguished herself with a cream blazer over her shirt and vest. The man who had interviewed Steve only came out for exorbitantly special occasions, but the staff quite preferred it this way.

Steve perused the refrigerated, open bottles for single-glass requests, but the manager had her eye on the angled shelves of older wine bottles. “Uh oh. Did a big spender come in?”

She sighed as she withdrew a dark bottle of Shiraz. “Considering he had to leave his guards at the valet podium, I’d say so.”

Steve pivoted his full attention to her. “No shit?”

“No shit. At least, the fellas looked a lot like a security force. In a discrete way, you know.”

A lot of men in various suits who didn’t know the definition of _discrete_ flashed in Steve’s memory. “No, not at all.” His hair swooshed over his eyes before he combed it behind his ear. “But that’s exciting, right?”

She coughed a laugh, but her surprise at him warmed into intrigue. “Steve, what section are you in today?”

“Twenty-three. Why?”

The vineyard house and restaurant was divided into ten sections, per floor. She nodded, understanding that he worked on the second floor today. “He’s in your area.”

He peered at her through the fogging refrigerator door. “Should I deliver it? Where’s the GM?”

“I got the impression that this guy doesn’t want to make conversation with a mouthy GM. You’re good with these types.”

“No, I’m not,” he snorted and went back to digging through the fridge. “Unless you need somebody to fight with this guy.”

He finally emerged with a chartreuse bottle of sauvignon blanc. “I’ve got my own high maintenance table. I’ll bring the koozie, though, unless his highness prefers an ice bucket.”

“Don’t call him that within earshot, please,” she chided, but rotated with him to leave the wine cellar together. In the waiters’ corner of the restaurant, Steve grabbed a large koozie base out of another fridge, and served his table while the manager went through the process of showing her patron the bottle, letting him taste, etc. After Steve’s small talk with his table concluded, he side-stepped over to his manager, conveniently timed so that she was finishing pouring the man’s glass of wine.

“This is Steve. He’ll be in the area if you need anything.”

Steve offered a polite, closed smile as he twisted the bottle into the chilled koozie. It faltered a little, his lips parting against that glacier, aquamarine stare. The terrace was too cold for anybody to dine outside, but the French doors beside his table were doing this guy _favors_ with lighting. His hair looked blonder with the sunlight infusing it, the waves and curls reasonably flattened since they’d been pulled into a bun behind his head. Shorter, rebellious pieces were combed over for a side parting, one particular blond tendril hanging over his contrastingly dark brows and long lashes.

 _The girls are going to fight me for this one,_ Steve thought ruefully. Because possibly the biggest surprise to the man, was how young he looked. Maybe even the same age as Steve.

“Have you gotten to look at the appetizers? Or are you wanting to relax for a while?” He set the bottle with its cold base on the table. Despite it being daylight outside, he took a lighter from his apron and used the time to light the centerpiece candle. Folks liked that sort of unnecessary accessory to their lives.

“I’m just relaxing. Thank you, Steve.”

* * *

Billy watched him retrieve a pitcher of water and pour an additional glass before making a lap of his tables. As he passed two waitresses, the latter fell into step behind him all the way back to the long counter separating the dining area from the open kitchen. Steve leaned a bit to see under the counter, from which he drank a bottle of water while the young women chattered at him.

No doubt about Billy. They had both tried to attend to his interests before the manager had arrived herself. Billy had seen Steve go in the direction of the wine cellar, so he sent her along too. Things were working out just as he wanted.

Said manager intercepted the trio, possibly to scold them for neglecting their work in favor of gossip. But then Steve tucked a basket of breadsticks under his arm and said something while waving two fingers between his eyes and the girls’. Billy smirked to himself. _What are you keeping your eye on?_

Whatever he said, even the manager laughed before they all parted ways. Steve came over with the obligatory breadsticks, his smile fading to be cordial once again. “Are you expecting anyone, or can I take some of these menus out of your way?”

“Just one person, but they aren’t eating. What were you all laughing about?”

He caught Steve off guard. Based on those large, guilty eyes, Billy had guessed right. He leaned back in his seat with a knowing smile. “I’m used to being talked about.”

Steve’s fingertips wandered over the table to find the menu and wine list. “We weren’t laughing at you. They were laughing at me, that’s all.”

“Fill me in. I hate being left out.”

He spoke slowly. A confident drawl he knew so many people liked, women in particular. Well…some found it sexy. Others found it intimidating, depending on how knowledgeable of Billy’s line of work they were.

But Steve’s lashes rose over skeptical, curious eyes, which lolled to the side in resignation. “The girls said you didn’t let them take your order. But you’re not the first person to want the manager specifically to show up at their table.”

Billy’s lashes dropped a notch. “And then?”

Steve’s eyes wandered, very clearly trying to find a way out of saying something. Billy leaned forward, aiming for casual instead of threatening. It worked, because Steve’s voice lowered as he bent slightly to get a grasp on the menus. “Since you haven’t turned me away yet, they wondered if you _preferred_ male waiters. I said it’s the universe telling them to keep their paws off my tables.”

A toothy grin cast some warmth to those blue eyes as Billy laughed softly. He pursed his lips slightly when Steve laughed too, like he’d discovered something pleasant on his tongue. “When my lawyer gets here, we’ll be using one of the lounges upstairs. Would you see to us there?”

Steve’s features opened up with blunt surprise. “Oh, no, that’s manager city. Waiters stay down here with the common folk.”

“I want you upstairs, Steve.” Billy’s gaze flicked to the side and he stood from the table. He buttoned one measly hole of his suit jacket—which looked a lot more like a tuxedo jacket with how it glimmered in the light—over his open, white shirt. Steve realized a smartly dressed woman stood nearby. “Whenever you’re free.”

* * *

He left a dumbfounded Steve behind until the manager appeared at his side. “What’s up?”

“He wants me to wait on him upstairs.”

“Then off you go,” she prompted like a question, asking him why he was still here.

“What do you mean, _off I go?_ Upstairs is where hoity toity people smoke and talk business and—I don’t know—run the world.”

She picked up the untouched glass and pressed the bottle into his hand. “Luckily, your job is much simpler. If he _asked_ for you, then off you go.”

The only thing that outweighed Steve’s anxiety was the sheer grumpiness at having to set up a waiter’s cart for the elevator. Water, wine, glasses, bread basket, and napkins all set, the elevator _ding!_ ed his arrival. The elevator opened to a large sitting area with three corridors finishing the compass rose. Considering the house used to be some long begotten robber baron’s mansion, getting lost seemed a real a possibility. The walls were paneled up here, unlike the painted downstairs, and the waiter’s cart rolled quietly over the thick carpet to the first open door he saw.

The lawyer stood in the middle of the room, which was large enough to host a coffee table and a couch on one side, and a conference table on the other. She was organizing the contents of her briefcase until Steve knocked on the door. She smiled back at him. “Yes, Mr. Harrington, please come in.”

It wasn’t until he came even with the coffee table that he realized…she shouldn’t know his name. His nerves began to boil upward as he cast a wary look around the room. “Where’s…?”

“Mr. Hargrove has left to see to other business. Do you prefer the couch or the table?”

“For _what_?” he piped a little too loudly.

She exhaled with a politely bored, understanding smile. “I assume he didn’t tell you anything. How about the couch, then?”

Ditching pleasantries, Steve poured himself a glass of water and guzzled it down while she brought her things to the coffee table. “What is that?” he croaked.

“In short, Mr. Hargrove is offering you a job.”

He stared at her. “A job.”

“Yes. Not an altogether uncommon one, either. But certainly with unique parameters, hence, why I’m here.”

“Am I in trouble for something?”

She looked up at him from the couch, properly looking at him this time. She petted the cushion beside her. “Please sit down. We’ll go through this at your pace.”

He shook his head. “I have tables downstairs—”

“Your assistant manager is already aware that you’re predisposed while we converse. Please, have a seat. You’re not in trouble. You haven’t broken any rules. Quite the opposite. My client likes you, and wants to offer you a steady occupation for the foreseeable future. I’ll walk you through it, but know that this contract is meant to assist and protect you as much as it is the other party.”

Steve absorbed that and took another gulp of water. “The other party. The Hargrove guy.”

A minor glimpse of frustration rolled through her eyes. “Yes. I’ll be sure to have him introduce himself properly the next time you meet. Shall we start?”

Like a kid ready to be scolded, Steve sank onto the couch with the water held between his knees. She crossed her ankles and began, “Now, as a bit of a preamble, Mr. Hargrove and myself need you to know that he is a…let’s say a high profile figure—”

“Does this have to do with my neighbor?”

Her grey eyes locked onto him, recalibrating her train of thought. “I’m sorry?”

It all just spilled right out. “My neighbor got pounded on by these loan shark-looking guys. They threw me down the stairs because I helped him stop bleeding. Is this because of that? Are you putting a leash on me?”

“ _No_ , Steve, this isn’t a leash,” she insisted firmly. “If anything, it’s a suit of armor to keep you safe. It’s a contract of domestic partnership.”

“D-What?” he blurted. “Domes—Part—That’s a marriage. That’s a marriage?”

Her head tilted as she sifted through her internal thesaurus. “It’s a type of marriage without the divorce papers. How’s that?”

He openly gaped at her. “I don’t get it.”

“I mean that it is an arrangement agreed upon by each other, and when you’re over it, either of you can leave at any time.”

Steve frowned. “This is a weird way to ask me out. Then why the contract?”

“No, you’re not dating. It’s a job, and you will be paid—a sum which you may of course negotiate. The contract is to establish boundaries for both of you, in any and all ways that you need them. You can’t see him on Thursdays? Put it in here and no one will so much as call you on Thursday. Allergic to spinach? You’ll never see a leaf of it.”

She placed a hand on her stack of papers for emphasis. “For instance, you at least must sign this top sheet, binding you to oath that you were never in this room, and you never heard me say, ‘Mr. Hargrove.’”

Steve blinked rapidly over wide eyes. “Who the hell is this guy? Don’t answer that, I guess.”

“You’re catching on,” she congratulated. “Inside the contract is a clause that details how, outside of yours and Mr. Hargrove’s meetings, you will not engage with one another. You will be complete strangers outside of your appointments.”

Steve’s features pulled up in a confused grimace, but he navigated that to say carefully, “Because…he’s a big deal.”

“A very big deal.”

“That I can’t talk about to anyone else.”

“Correct.”

Then, to her surprise, he relaxed. “Sounds like the easiest part of this.”

Her fine, manicured brows knit together briefly. “It’s nice that you approach secrecy so well.”

Steve lifted his glass of water to his lips while she set the Non-Disclosure Agreement aside for later. Pulling the stack of papers onto her lap—which Steve realized with no small amount of anxiety, was the contract—she splayed a hand over it. “You may look through this now, if you like, but I do recommend having your lawyer do this with you.”

All of a sudden, Steve felt very small. He admitted quietly, “I don’t have one of those. Can I drink this?”

He pointed at the wine. She waved a hand. “It’s paid for. Go right ahead. What do you mean, you don’t have a lawyer?”

He slid worried eyes to her before taking a long sip. “I can’t afford one. I mean, I could ask my parents for a loan, but…you know. Secrecy. And I’m not smart enough to understand lawyer lingo.”

She inhaled as if to speak, but it deflated as they both looked elsewhere, at an impasse. Steve looked into the red contents of his glass before he exhaled, “I’m sorry for wasting your time, but really. What the hell does this guy do? Walk into a place, see something he likes, and has a lawyer ready to _make a contract with it?_ ”

“No. I am not privy to the inner workings of that man’s mind, but I can tell you, that he won’t be pleased if the only reason you’re refusing his offer, is because you don’t have someone to look over this with you.”

“But how he’s sketchy as hell and doesn’t know a thing about me isn’t enough?”

She closed her eyes and laughed, like for a small moment she could empathize with Steve. “I understand your wariness, but if it’s any consolation, these types of contracts do usually involve a large amount of fantasy.”

Steve’s features flattened. He took another gulp of wine. “Fantasy.”

“That’s right. Technically, you _don’t_ need to know anything about him. Nor does he about you. The parameters he supplied for the first draft of your agreement will shed some light on what he expects from you.”

Steve angled tired eyes at her. He didn’t know much about lawyers, but this Hargrove guy had chosen a good one. “He pays you a lot of money, doesn’t he?”

Inhaling deeply, she sighed, “He sure does,” and leaned forward for the bottle of wine. Steve watched her pour her own full glass, and then look him dead in the eyes. “Which is why I’m going to do something illegal for you. Ethically, logically, and legally speaking, I can’t be the lawyer for both parties. But, I will take you through each page of this thing and make sure you understand what’s on the table.”

Steve began to slouch forward, before his stiff raiment and underlying injuries reminded him otherwise. “Okay.”

* * *

Steve lazily paced around the coffee table and couch. Turns out, the fruit basket on the conference table was real, so he peeled a banana and broke off pieces while he listened to Hargrove’s lawyer read sections of the lengthy contract. She had long since tossed her pressed, cobalt suit jacket aside so she could easily make notes between two copies of the contract. One for Steve, and the other for her and Hargrove’s records.

“…If the signatory—”

“Pause. That’s me?”

“That’s you, yes. You’re signing. You’re the signatory.”

He nodded and bit into his fruit. Her patience for repeating explanations knew no bounds. “Okay.”

“If the signatory exercises non compos mentis, explicit refusal, or dubious consent, then the offending party is subject to the immediate dissolution of this legal binding.”

She looked up at Steve’s silence and met a completely vacant stare. “It means that if you want to engage in sex of any kind, you have to be the one to initiate it.”

She physically leaned back in the brunt of Steve’s eyes growing as large as golf balls. “You didn’t say this was a prostitute thing!”

“Because it isn’t. Sex can be a component, if you both consent to it, or it can be excluded entirely. In any case, there’s nothing wrong or shameful in sex work.”

Steve waved the banana peel as he gestured through, “But he wants that? He put that in there?”

She opened her hands as if to gently move the matter aside. “He’s left the ball completely in your court.”

“Hmm…” Steve hummed skeptically, licking the banana pulp off his fingers.

“There is a diagram for you to fill out, detailing areas you do not want to be touched without having provided consent first. Mr. Hargrove has already supplied his own.”

Curiosity more than anything moved Steve back to the couch. Two simple outlines of a human being, the front and the back, rested on the page with colored sections and explanations beside them. Hargrove had highlighted in red the figure’s hair, while other small areas were in yellow: the throat and groin. Steve read:

_Hair contact—pulling—is prohibited at all times unless explicitly allowed._

_Asphyxiation, currently, is prohibited, but may be discussed at a later time._

_Genital contact and stimulation are subject to both parties’ consent._

Steve couldn’t really disagree with most of it. The subtle interest in riskier sex told him more about Hargrove than he’d ever known about a stranger, but it all made sense. “He’s really blunt about this.”

“Honesty is important here,” she agreed. Highlighters appeared in his vision. Licking his lips, he slowly accepted the yellow and red while he self-reflected.

He colored the hair red. Too many people had pulled his hair with the intention of hurting him. He also colored the back of the neck red, but the front yellow. “I’m okay with kissing. Just not…I’ve never done the strangling stuff.”

She nodded without judgment and wrote down his notes.

He colored the feet yellow. “I’m fine with general touching, but I don’t know what to do with a fetish.”

She smiled and made note of it. “There is an optional list of kinks and fetishes in the contract. He left his side of it empty.”

Steve then arrived at the pelvis. Long lashes and blue eyes flashed in his memory. He colored the front yellow. One the back, he put a red dot over the anus. “A thick, virgin consent line there.”

She nodded and scribbled away. Steve peeked at the next page and asked, “Is there like a…an opposite of kinks page? A hard No’s page?”

“Absolutely.”

He waited for her to finish her notes and flip to the corresponding page. Hargrove had put a few lines down:

_Violence._

_Extensive BDSM—lighter variations negotiable._

_Closed doors are restricted areas and will remain closed._

_Weapons will be locked in a safe before interaction._

_Pictures. Film. Recordings of all kinds._

_Corn, casseroles, canned green beans, and raw mushrooms._

Well. At least he was starting to have a firm grasp on Hargrove’s line of work. But his gaze lingered on the food list. “Jesus, I’m from Indiana. If I’m playing husband, what am I supposed to make?”

“Anything else,” she offered unhelpfully, apart from a pen. Steve slid off the couch to sit on the floor so his stomach wouldn’t have to bend. The lawyer readied to copy down his own additions:

_Violence._

_BDSM—bondage._

_Hair pulling._

_Pain kinks—all non-negotiated kinks._

_Any food that’s black, grey, and/or slimy._

_Calamari and octopus._

_Tentacle dildos._

_Orchids._

_Drugs—needles. Marijuana is fine. Cigarettes negotiable._

He paused to think, tapping the end of the pen against his mouth before he remembered it wasn’t his. The lawyer offered, “You can always add to this list at any time, should you discover something later.”

“Okay,” he agreed, handing it back. “What else?”

“Schedule and payment.” She found the corresponding sections, read through them and trimmed for his benefit, “The proposed schedule is…a bit out of your favor.”

He’d remained on the floor, turning toward her and resting his head on his hand. He wiggled fingers in gesture to, “I don’t have any days off,” and then couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, shit.”

She tilted her head in agreement and announced, “Mr. Hargrove insists on giving you a four-hour notice whenever he wants to meet on days the two of you have not prescheduled.”

Steve processed that and faltered, “But that…wait. Like, I’m—I have to drop everything and go where he tells me to?” He scoffed, “No, that’s not gonna work.”

“He does have a number of dates he is able to schedule for you, but outside of those, he is a busy man.”

 _This_ busy man gaped and exclaimed, “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around. If he can’t fairly make time for someone, then—”

“Let’s talk about payment and get back to this.”

Steve sighed and twisted back around so his back pressed into the couch. “I don’t see why. He chose like, the busiest person in the city to—”

There were a lot of zeros on the page she showed him. All Steve could do was stare and process his rent, groceries, apartment repairs, and new jeans…a haircut, for god sake.

“This is the annual, suggested price,” she clarified.

He swallowed dryly. “How does that break down on a monthly level?”

She had a calculator ready. She showed him, and then divided it even further. “If you were to meet him once a week, this is your amount. Keep in mind, the likelihood of weekly appointments is small. Once a month is more likely, but frequency may fluctuate.”

He looked up at her to gauge her sincerity. Missing a shift or two every month with _that_ amount to cushion him? Steve just couldn’t believe it. At the risk of offending her after she took _hours_ to explain things to him, at the risk of putting them both in danger of failing a boss who carried weapons during his day job, he asked, “Am I allowed to say no?”

The lawyer grew very quiet. For a while, he didn’t dare look at her, but eventually he lifted his gaze out of his lap to see how she looked at him differently this time.

“Of course you can say no.”

* * *

Billy looked up from the paperwork spread out over his coffee table to the doorman letting in his lawyer. A small, warm bundle of fur rested beside his hip. He gave it a pet before he braced for her report. When none immediately came, he glared, “Yes?”

“He’s clueless,” she barked, dumping her briefcase on the couch opposite him and landing in a huff. She crossed her knees. “You picked the most civilian of civilians.”

Billy closed his eyes for patience and tried not to let his voice tremor. “Did he _sign it_ , or not?”

She plucked two pins from her hair, releasing her bun and breathing as if she’d been running as she massaged her scalp. “I’ve got his autograph, yes. He’s a sweetie, Hargrove, he is, but my god. He puts on a good front, until he looked ready to throw up at the amount you offered.”

Billy’s relief took a pause as he leaned back with a growing smirk. “Really? The background check said he’s no stranger to wealth.”

“Yeah, small town, Indiana wealth. He’s living under metropolis inflation, now. With three jobs, I don’t think he’s seeing a penny of his childhood luxury. And he mentioned his neighbor—a factor you failed to warn me about. Poor guy looked like he was walking to a guillotine when he entered the room. He finished your wine.”

Billy grinned, his hand finding the sleeping ball of fur once more. “And he said yes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, he’s all set for Saturday. He was real pissed about the four-hour notice, by the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're waiting for a 50 Shades of Grey joke, don't you worry. It's coming lol
> 
> [Twitter~](https://twitter.com/Pondermoniums)  
> [Tumblr~](http://pondermoniums.tumblr.com/)


	4. Billy

“How does this work with taxes, though?” Steve asked into the receiver. Hargrove’s lawyer still wasn’t exactly pleased with him using her as his own, but she’d given him her business card, and he’d realized in the middle of the week that he couldn’t make such a salary without the IRS breathing down his neck.

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Wha—” he laughed, “Really? Isn’t that what got Al Capone in jail?”

“You’re treading a little close for comfort.”

Steve paced his apartment and shoved the stack of shelves he had yet to return to the walls out of the way with his foot. “Yeah. Well. I used to be a swimmer. What tax form do I fill out for this?”

Her long sigh put static in his ear. But Steve could relate. He still sat in disbelief that he’d agreed to this sort of thing. He wasn’t sure if he was a glorified hooker, a maid, or a boyfriend for hire. He sure as hell didn’t know what to do with the check he waved around while pacing the room; he’d picked up his mail and frowned at the unfamiliar envelope with his name handwritten on the front. No return address. The envelope sat with the rest of his mail on his bed as he spoke to the lawyer, occasionally pausing to stare at the numbers written on the damn thing.

“What am I supposed to do with this check?” he asked after a lot of back and forth.

“Most people deposit them,” she answered, deadpan. “It’s to make up for occupying your shift on Monday.”

Steve moved large eyes over the check again. Between a vineyard and a casino, he had certainly seen large tips now and then, but he’d only ever come close to bringing home the number on the check after a double wedding weekend at the vineyard. “Has this guy ever been a waiter in his life?”

“Are we done here, Mr. Harrington?” she rerouted. “Do you have any questions for Saturday?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Well, you have my number when those manifest. You remember what we discussed?”

“Yeah, but…you said it’s all just a fantasy, right?”

“Mr. Hargrove will understand you having questions for him to answer during your first few sessions until you find a rhythm. The bottom line is, while you’re together, your outside lives stay outside, and your inside doings stay inside.”

“What happens with Hargrove stays with Hargrove.”

“Exactly. You don’t ask about his job. He doesn’t ask about yours.”

“So no, ‘Hi, honey, how was your day?’” he ventured.

“That’s as close as you’ll ever be able to come.”

“Okay. And this address…it’s as simple as knocking on the door?”

“They’ll be expecting you, yes. You will be searched and your personal items will be taken—”

“Why?” he chirped. “My keys and phone too?”

Her voice softened but insisted, “You’ll get them back when you leave. It’s all right. Think of it as going through airport security.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw grinding. He nodded before he verbally answered, “This is definitely a three hour meeting? Or just a window?”

“He’s a busy man,” she crooned. “The clock strikes twelve and Cinderella leaves.”

Steve blinked, realizing, “Wait, what am I supposed to wear?”

“Good _day_ , Mr. Harrington.”

With not much else to do, he deposited the check the next day under the blissfully bored gaze of a bank teller, and waited for Saturday. Occasionally he glanced at the contract he’d been allowed to take home. He felt like he was studying for a test—a situation in which he’d never been particularly motivated—but he figured, with his early Christmas bonus, he’d buy a small safe in which to keep the contract, and get a haircut.

After all, nothing in there said that he couldn’t change his appearance. He didn’t change much anyway, just trimmed the top and brought the back up since his nape had officially turned purple and green, so it wouldn’t be long until the bruise vanished. For a while, he blissfully ignored the pending appointment on Saturday, and bobbed his fringe to the music in his head, enjoying the newly weightless swoosh of it all.

His coworkers at the casino hotel commented how cute his newly acquired brass hairclips were. The girls liked how he just grabbed the front of his hair, folded it back, and clipped it down on top of his head. Steve was just proud he found clips that matched his nametag, because he completely forgot they were there when he clipped his hair so his beanie wouldn’t flatten it.

He had to remove the clips when Saturday finally landed. Because sure enough, a metal detector waited right inside the luxury condominium building. Steve had been told to use a side entrance, where a doorman checked his driver’s license and let him into a small, but marbled lobby. Every sound bounced around the room: his footsteps, his quiet greetings and the security guards’ returned orders.

_Coat, hat, and shoes in the bin, please, Mr. Harrington._

_The hairclips too._

_Empty your pockets into this bucket and step through._

_Arms out._

_Feet hip-distance apart._

Steve really wished he had slept in today. It felt like the day after Starcourt “burnt down,” when the American secret scientists had to scrutinize him and Robin for what the _Russian_ secret scientists had done to them. When he was allowed to put his arms down and wait for his items to go through the conveyor belt, he reassured himself over how he’d given himself little gestures of security.

He hadn’t brought a phone. He didn’t trust that a lock screen would be enough to hinder these guys.

He left his apartment key in the broken light switch panel in his corridor.

He left bobby pins in the fire hydrant box in case something happened to his key.

If Steve Harrington _officially_ didn’t exist inside this building, then he’d leave him outside.

After he was allowed his coat and shoes once more, he went to the elevator doors. There, one of the men had him pause for a camera in the wall to take his picture. Once inside, there were no buttons. At least, a key slot under a locked panel meant that he couldn’t use them. He also didn’t get to know which floor he was headed to, but it was some relief to be going up instead of down. He rubbed his arms in the sterile box, and then held his body while his ears popped twice.

The elevator opened to a semicircular lobby that fed into a short hallway. Security desks took up both sides of the semicircle, but the hallway in between them implied that Hargrove owned the whole floor, if not the entire building.

The doors opened to someone approaching him. They waved Steve over to one of the desks, where a person behind a monitor could make sure he matched the picture from the ground floor. Meanwhile, the first guard told Steve to starfish in the air and moved a scanner over his body a second time. Steve made a mental note to get here earlier next time.

Getting cleared security-wise must’ve meant they could finally be nice to him. “Good morning, Mr. Harrington. This way.”

“Thanks,” he returned warily. He had no idea what polite conversation sounded like with these people. Either way, the guard unlocked the door on the left side of the hallway. Steve didn’t dare look at the right hand door, even though his curiosity flew in that direction.

Inside was another small, circular…like, antechamber or something. A pointless room, as far as Steve could tell. With two more doors. Steve glanced at the table in the middle featuring a bouquet of flowers and nothing more. This time, the guard gestured to the left door, but stood off to the right side. Discrete, but definitely blocking Steve from going to that side.

“The door should be open for you.”

Steve took that as his cue to open the door himself. “Okay. Thanks.”

_These people are going to think I have the vocabulary of a fish_ , he condemned internally, and stepped inside…

_Oh shit, Steve, you are so screwed._

The door opened to a large kitchen—a room designed with a mixture of dark, slate accents and light, neutral contrast. Pale grey, almost sand colored hardwood floors rested beneath a wall of dark, concealed cabinets and fridge like he’d seen in his mother’s interior design magazines. White marble sat on top of the massive island counter, and the opposite wall was entirely glass.

Leaving his shoes by the door, he stepped through the empty kitchen to see the living room branching off to the right. On the other side of another wall of windows, a courtyard sat neglected in the November cold. The whole place had a cavernous feeling, made spacious by the high ceilings and lighter accents, but Steve’s gaze locked onto the gas fireplace. Large and in charge, it sat inside the wall separating the living room and bedroom; a modern design acting as a window into the master bedroom. It radiated light and warmth while still being gentle and inviting. Dangerous and seductive.

Steve’s eyes lolled in their sockets to land on the dark leather couch—

And the bright yellow eyes of a small cat plushie staring back at him. He almost burst out laughing, the thing was so out of place in this high rise, bachelor pad. Its long, black fur would’ve camouflaged it on the couch if it weren’t for the rich coffee hue teasing underneath the black.

Steve put a hand on his hip and moved the other through his hair as he rotated to survey his surroundings. The bedroom door was shut—even though he could see through the fireplace to the large bed on the other side—as well as another door he guessed led to an office or den or whatever secret room this guy needed. Steve had access to the living room, kitchen, a bathroom, the courtyard, and had no idea what to do with himself—

The plushie was gone.

Steve froze, hands out and knees bent as if waiting for an explosion to happen. “Oh my god,” he whispered, and then gradually louder, “Oh my god. Oh my god. Um! Um…”

He first checked the fireplace, but no daredevil cat had gone towards it. He checked the door to the courtyard, but it was firmly shut. “Shit, where the heck did you go?”

He ducked onto all fours and circled the couch to see underneath the furniture…

The door opened. The _other_ door. The super secret door. Steve witnessed socked feet appear the same time a hand scooped up the lump of black fluff pawing at it. Steve’s head popped up behind the back of the couch as Hargrove laughed breathily. “Looking for something?”

“Uh. Yeah…” He gripped the couch to stand up. “I didn’t think the cat was real until they disappeared.”

Hargrove held the kitten high on his chest, scratching one fluffy cheek as he confirmed, “You can’t lift your feet in a dark room with this one around. He’s social.”

He met Steve by the arm of the couch, holding the cat for a proper introduction. Steve wiggled his fingertips over the cat’s forehead until it mewled in complaint and both gnawed and licked his hand. He snuck a finger under the small chin, and the cat’s eyes closed to slits as the head stuck out to give Steve more room.

He chuckled and moved his large palm over the ears and back. “What’s his name?”

It was one thing to stand next to this man with money and contracts and a small army split up between the top and bottom floors of the building, but being this close and looking straight into those water-blue eyes was something else.

“I’ve been calling him Onyx.”

A soft yet rude sound came out of Steve before he could stop it. He quickly answered the man’s rising eyebrows, “I mean—it just seems a little tame for a ferocious couch cat.”

An amused smirk curved beneath the raised brows. “What would you name him?”

Steve rolled his lips together slowly while he grappled for something. “Lucy? Short for Lucifer.”

“That’s stereotypical. Everyone’s known a cat named Lucifer.”

“I’m not saying to change the name,” Steve backpedaled. _Good grief, you just got here and are going to get fired by some mafia warlord._ “But. Um. Speaking of names…”

He watched the man half toss, half set the kitten on the couch, where it rolled over itself like an uncooked noodle. Dark lashes lifted, and blinked against the springy blond curl that had fallen over his forehead. Steve’s gaze wandered a little before he asked, “What do I call you?”

He huffed a mirthful breath through his nose, and held out his hand. “Billy.”

It was his left hand. Steve had never shaken a left hand before. “Well, uh,” he used his unoccupied right to wave at himself, “Steve.”

The smirk opened into a toothy, almost groggy smile. “You can take your coat off, Steve.”

He’d completely forgotten he was wearing it. Billy released his hand and moved past him. “I’ll start on lunch. Occupy the little one. He likes to leap off furniture.”

Steve refocused on the kitten, and realized, “Oh my god, a lollipop guild cat.”

A laugh burst out of Billy from the kitchen. “I think they’re called munchkin cats. Or dwarf cats. It’s something like, all dwarf cats are munchkins, but not all munchkins are dwarves…something like that.”

Steve eased out of his parka while the little one in question climbed up the large cushion to the back of the couch. “Don’t they have lineage papers or…I don’t know. Breeding certifications?”

Billy opened cabinets and shut the fridge, and various kitchen sounds mixed with his voice saying, “They should. Which is why your neighbor is out of business.”

Steve sat on the other side of the floor plan, feeling very much on the other side of the world with a tiny fluff ball connecting them. “Uh. Okay.”

“You can ask,” Billy crooned, amusement in his voice.

“I can?” he chirped, moving the cat back to a relatively safer part of the couch.

“You weren’t supposed to be involved. Nobody was, actually. This is…” A skillet clattered on the stove as Billy peeked back at him. Billy seemed to be thinking over something. Then he finished, “Let’s say that this is my district. They were in the wrong territory. The pet smuggler and the ones chasing him. You don’t need to worry about the cross-fire anymore.”

Steve rubbed his jaw and carried the kitten to the island counter with his parka. Billy looked up from a cutting board with some surprise, observing the creature stepping over the puffy jacket like it was the moon’s surface.

Steve sat at one of the stools and framed the jacket with his arms. “You’re saying this little guy was living next door? Thought I would’ve heard him; noise complaints fly around like disco lights in that building.”

A moment passed while Billy was preoccupied with watching the cat pounce on Steve’s fingers moving underneath the coat. A splash of…confused, or perhaps hesitant, warmth moved underneath his features, as if he was not expecting to enjoy the kitten’s exploits. “The noise complaints were probably what snitched him out. You were either not around, or sleep hard.”

Steve cradled his jaw and cheek in one hand while the other pet the kitten gnawing on his zipper tie. Both were true. He’d always been a deep sleeper, and three jobs only made him further dead to the world when his head hit the pillow. As it was, he didn’t know how far they could talk about this, so he diverted, “What’s lunch?”

“Breakfast,” Billy declared, running a knife over green onions. Steve lifted a brow of surprise that the kitchen had knives since he wasn’t allowed to have his hair clips.

He unconsciously rubbed at the back of his neck. Billy’s gaze flicked up, dragging over him. “It looks good.”

“Hm?” Steve refocused and realized what he was doing. “Oh. Thanks. It was overdue.”

The oven beeped and Billy opened a box of pre-frozen pigs in blankets. Stripping it of its plastic wrap, he slotted the aluminum dish into the oven and proceeded to count eggs. “How many do you want?”

Steve realized with some amusement that Billy might only know how to cook eggs. “Two is fine.”

Hearing it in his voice, Billy slowly extracted plates from a dishwashing drawer while scrutinizing him. “What?”

Steve shook his head and said innocently, “Just wondering if you only cook eggs.”

The side of Billy’s mouth crooked up. “What if it is?”

Steve was very glad his mother dragged him to so many cooking classes. Nevertheless, he sassed, “I guess we’ll be eating KFC under candlelight a lot.”

Billy laughed breathily, and his grin was…nice. He pointed outside to a covered item next to the courtyard wall. “I use the grill more than the kitchen. Weather permitting.”

Onyx played intermittently on the counter while Billy oiled a pan to fry eggs when the main dish was closer to being done. It was…surprisingly easy to talk to him. And when conversation occasionally drifted to silence, the sounds of cooking or Steve’s parka crunching didn’t let it sit heavily over them.

Billy gave him the task of opening a bottle of bubbly rosé, and Steve didn’t complain one bit at having a glass before noon. When the cork popped, Onyx flinched, and Steve immediately cooed a string of apologies at him. “Sorry! Sorry, honey. Oh my god, you’re so small. Here, it’s just a cork…that’s bigger than your leg.”

He could feel Billy’s eyes on him as he set the mushroom-shaped cork on the counter, which Onyx took pleasure in smacking off the marble. Steve peeked over his shoulder to see where it landed. “Well. That’s how he feels about that.”

Billy came around to accept the glass Steve poured, and he stayed leaning against the counter, petting the soft, black fur. With Billy’s hand as a pillow, Onyx fell asleep in the nest of Steve’s coat.

Steve took a final sip before standing. “I think you’re nailed down. I’ll do the eggs. How do you want ‘em?”

Billy took his place on the stool. “Fried and runny.”

Steve felt better with something to do. The hot pan made the eggs bubble and sizzle loudly as soon as they landed. The timer started yelling, so Steve pulled out the dish from the oven and dropped slices of butter here and there over the bread rolls out of Midwestern habit.

“Oh. Were you wanting this to be somewhat healthy?”

But when he rotated for Billy’s reply, he felt the force of glacier irises staring at him. Whatever smile he wore crumbled off his face. He suddenly felt very stupid, just holding the butter knife.

Billy must’ve realized the effect he was having, because his austere features relaxed as he looked down. “No, it’s fine. Do what you want.”

Steve rather wanted to disappear as some nobody busboy in a hole in the wall diner, but as it was, he set the platters of food on the counter. He took the stool next to Billy, who freed his hand to pry some pigs out of the dish. “There’s ibuprofen in the drawer right of the stove.”

Steve’s gaze found the drawer he meant, but it took a long minute before he realized why.

Between his shortened hair and the collar of his crimson sweatshirt, his bruised nape was on blast for Billy to see while he’d stood over the stove. Steve cleared his throat, trying for normalcy. “I took one earlier. Thanks.”

The tension finally eased when Billy held a buttered finger out to the cat, whose eyes had opened in lieu of food arriving. The food settled more easily in Steve’s belly after that.

When Billy finished, he hummed a sound, wiped his mouth, and continued, “I should give you the tour.”

Steve’s large eyes darted a little around the kitchen. The open floor plan didn’t really warrant a tour—

Billy took the cat, and opened the bedroom door.

Steve crammed the last of his bread into his mouth and crossed the living room. His first impression of the bedroom was that the fireplace was the best part. Otherwise, the room was as magazine ready as the rest of the place. It was beautiful, and beautifully boring. Sterile. The fireplace was the only real, vivacious color in the otherwise neutral room. Grey carpet. Grey bedding with a dark blue throw blanket. Black bedside tables. The black headboard was comprised of shelves which held unburned, white candles.

Steve remembered his mother saying, “Interior design does one of two things: it reflects the person’s brain who lives in it, or it contradicts it. Busy minds have busy spaces, or contrastingly Spartan living areas. Almost like they need to physically make room for all the mental inventory they carry.”

Steve could understand it, but…it was all so dark compared to his overpriced skylights, white walls, the unreliable heating, his colorful vinyl collection which he still didn’t have a turntable for, the colorful laundry he left out… It was all bones and no soul.

Billy turned lights on as he went, and moved straight to the closet. It was no surprise that it was a walk-in, but the netted playpen in the middle sure was. He unzipped the top and set Onyx inside. Steve came in close to see the food and water dishes, the box with pellet litter, and a blanket and stuffed animal making a nest for Onyx to land.

Steve ventured, “Doesn’t he need…natural light?”

“He only spends two hours at a time in here. When he’s bigger he can roam free, but I have to leave sometimes.”

“Right.” Steve excused himself out of the closet. _It’s not my cat,_ he reminded. He had a brief glimpse of the clothes on either side of the walls before Billy turned the lights off but left the door open. Steve knew the look, press, and smell of expensive and well-maintained clothing—

“Oh,” Billy turned one of the lights back on, “these are yours.”

Steve froze. Then all but barked, “What?”

Billy huffed a laugh and gestured to a section of hanging space that had a few items already there. “If you want.”

Steve listened to Onyx slurping at the water dish while he perused the items: sweatpants, v-neck shirts, long-sleeves, and other loungewear. He scratched the side of his nose, feeling like he’d finally arrived at the part of the test he didn’t study for. He couldn’t remember anything in the contract about presents.

“Are these gifts? Or more like a uniform?”

When Billy didn’t answer right away, he looked at him and saw a contemplative and…displeased expression. Billy’s mouth opened, but whatever he’d planned for the first draft got dumped and he said instead, “Do you need clothes?”

“No?” Steve wondered even though his brain pointed a shady finger at the one pair of hole-less jeans in his apartment. “I mean, do I take these—Am I allowed to take—I don’t know how to ask things without insulting you.”

Billy’s lashes sagged a little, resuming that half-tired, half-cocky expression. “They’re available so you don’t look ready to bolt out the door the whole time.”

Steve’s jaw hung a little uselessly. “Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m going to use the bathroom. You can keep eating or start putting things away.”

A task. Hallelujah. “Yeah, sure,” he agreed, and turned the light off.

Steve nibbled on another sausage roll while he properly acquainted himself with the kitchen. It seemed well enough stocked with basic items. Silverware. A colander. The obligatory matching bowl and plate set. The fridge looked like a college student stocked it. Steve would know, because he visited Robin’s apartment semi-regularly on the other side of the state. I.e.: a couple take-out boxes, random produce that didn’t make sense for any recipe, and condiments.

Steve stood with his sausage roll, chewing as slowly as his thoughts mulled over how the hell he was going to get through security with grocery bags—

“I gotta go.”

Steve whirled around as the fridge began to ding the alarm for having the door open too long. His cheek was full of bread and sausage as he looked at the clock on the stove. _When the clock strikes twelve._

Chewing quickly, he came around the island counter as Billy slid his arms into a camel beige coat. “Wait wait wait, hang on.”

Billy paused in adjusting the coat collar. “What’s the matter?”

Steve swallowed and opened his arms with flapping hands. “You can’t leave without this. Come here.”

He was almost sure some of the food had lodged on its way down, the way the back of his throat ached as he put his arms around Billy for a hug. The guy didn’t really give the impression of being a touchy person, and now that Steve touched a whole lot of him, he knew the man was a slab of muscle. He seemed more likely to jab a fist into Steve’s diaphragm than hug him back…

But he did. And more, he tilted his body ever so slightly so that he slotted against Steve like a puzzle piece. Steve was careful not to touch his hair, but Billy moved so that he wasn’t holding a block of human anymore. His face nestled in the bend between neck and shoulder, and he felt a flush of heat at having Billy against him. At having Billy’s arms close around him. The quiet sigh that pushed out of Billy to gently brush over Steve’s nape. A hand petting between the small of his back, and his shoulder blades.

It lasted longer than a hug between strangers ought to. Long enough for Steve to inhale the smell of Billy’s raiment and hair. To think that he smelled really _good_. Long enough for their parting to be just as slow, for the tiniest bit of facial growth to graze Steve’s jaw and send a feral thrill shooting through his body—

For Billy’s lips to meet his. Like the most natural thing in the world.

Just a soft peck, it ended as quickly as it began. Billy’s hands squeezed Steve’s waist as he purred, “Don’t freeze. I’ll see you soon.”

“Yeah,” Steve exhaled. When the kitchen door closed and Billy was gone, he finished clumsily, “You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, yes I will put a cat in every one of my Harringrove fics, thanks for asking. Although I do thoroughly see Billy owning a husky in the mountains with his husband, who thought he was avoiding winters by marrying a Californian.
> 
> And for the non-Americans wondering what the HECK pigs-in-a-blanket is, they're small breakfast sausages baked in bread rolls <3
> 
> [Twitter~](https://twitter.com/Pondermoniums)   
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	5. Bingus and Dingus

“Who puckered your kisser?”

Steve froze exactly like a deer in his boss’s headlights. Considering he was halfway bent over a booth, Clarice cackled with laughter. “Can always tell. Good for you, honey.”

Bless her, she left him alone about it apart from the initial teasing. Steve was glad for it, because the iridescent bubble he floated on gave him a heady, blissed out feeling that he wanted to coast on.

_I got kissed today._

It was a silly, teenage, twirly thing in his torso, like his heart was doing pirouettes on his ribs and organs. He tried to gently remind himself, _It’s a job. It’s a job. He’s your boss,_ but the stupid little ballerina just sang, _We get to kiss our boss? How neat is that?_

_I guess I’m lonelier than I thought._

He ruminated on that while he scrubbed the dishtowel over the table. Billy Hargrove was not the first man he’d kissed. Moving out of Hawkins and tagging along with Robin to college parties and city clubs had been a massive bucket of water in both of their faces. Sure, Robin is gay, but Steve isn’t so straight, and they had each other to buffer against the currents of the whirlwind that their early twenties took.

And all of a sudden, he missed her immensely. So much so that he pulled out his phone right there, and called her. He knew he’d get her answering machine.

_“Hey, it’s Robin. If I like you, you know what to do. If I don’t, don’t bother.”_

The side of his mouth smirked up as he moved to the next table. “Hey, bingus. Call me in a couple hours. I wanna know what you’re doing for the holidays.”

Robin absolutely _despised_ cold calls. She had once told him, “I don’t care if you have to email me or smoke signal me first, don’t freaking call me out of nowhere.”

“What if it’s an emergency?”

“I will accept gay emergencies only. Otherwise, I’m ghosting your ass.”

So Steve always called. And Robin never answered.

But exactly two hours from the minute he hung up, his phone rang while he and Max sat in a booth waiting for the final patrons to leave. “Hello.”

“You’re interrupting a _Buffy_ marathon, dingus.”

“Awesome,” he leaned back against the green, vinyl cushion, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving and Christmas?”

He heard the crunching of popcorn or some other late night snack. “Thanksgiving? I don’t know. Getting sick off of your cinnamon buns, probably. And don’t we usually go back to Hawkins for Christmas?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been getting the impression that Dustin’s staying with his girlfriend over the holidays.”

“Gross.”

Steve laughed. “Right. It’s been a while since he was fourteen, though.”

More endearingly she said, “Good for them. We should definitely harass them, though, if they come within fifty miles of us. I don’t know about Christmas. It’s kind of hard to see past tomorrow right now.”

Max poured salt onto the table, which he pushed around with a straw. “What’s going on tomorrow?”

“I meant in general, it’s hard to see past a couple days at a time. But a bunch of people have been getting fired at my job. We think the place is shutting down but no one’s telling us anything.”

“Shit. Seriously? That’s unfair.”

“That’s capitalism. I should probably _ask_ whether it’s okay for me to come over for the end of November.”

He shook pepper over the salt. “You already know it’s okay. Are you still a rabbit?”

“I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”

Steve chuckled. “I’m making a grocery list. I need to know.”

“Yes, I’m still vegetarian, ass hat.”

“Love you,” he sang into the receiver.

“Love you too—wait! Is my key to your place still good?”

He blinked, his lashes lifting over wide eyes. “No, actually. I’ll have new locks by the time you come over.”

“Steve,” she declared bluntly. A question and a statement all in one.

“Everything’s fine,” he pushed back. “You know where I keep my spare, or you can hang out at the diner, depending on when you arrive and I get off work. You remember this place, right?”

“The place with all the plants?”

“Yep.”

“Okay. See you soon, dingus.”

“Yep,” he repeated, and lifted his pelvis under the table so he could stuff the phone back into his pocket.

He and Max had organized the salt and pepper into a long line, through which she now pushed or pulled salt to make triangular points like an ECG readout. “Is that why you’re happy? Your girlfriend’s coming over?”

“Oh, she’s not my girlfriend,” he scoffed mildly. He took a series of gulps from his water glass.

“You just casually say, I love you, to each other?”

Steve shrugged. “When you love your friends, why not? After you grow up in the same, shitty town and have a couple near-death experiences with somebody, petty and self-centered bullshit doesn’t matter as much anymore. Life’s short. Tell your friends you love ‘em.”

Before she could process that or refute it, her grandmother swept a hand over the table, trapping the salt in the curve of her palm and sliding it right into a bowl headed for the dish pit. “Honey, the car’s here.”

Steve glanced through the windows at the vague outline of a dark car in the darker evening. He collected both his and Max’s drink glasses as they stood from the booth. “Who actually picks you up?”

“My brother.”

“Oh,” he puffed his lower lip out. “Right on. I didn’t think you had siblings.”

She smiled wryly at him as she put on her coat. “Just the one. Why not?”

He splayed his hand on his chest while he spoke. “I thought you and I shared the prime characteristic of being an only child.”

Her eyes rolled. “God. And what is that?”

That hand moved for him to gesture something sophisticated with his fingers. “Our attractiveness is directly measured alongside how much of a little shit we are.”

Her mouth went a little slack while she absorbed that. Her default mixture of bored and grumpy melted out of the way of a grin to match Steve’s waiting glee.

“That’s so stupid!” she laughed.

“Only for boring, unattractive people.”

“I’m the attractive one. You’re just a little shit,” she declared during her slow progress to the door.

“Nuh uh. Now that you have a brother, you’re just a _normal_ person.”

She paused with a hand on the door to look back at him. Hand on one hip while the other held their stacked glasses, Steve slid his head from side to side, sassy.

She blinked and returned, “You were a prep in high school, right?”

He nodded, the arch of his hair bouncing over his forehead. Which seemed a little ironic considering the brass hair clip on the side of his head. “Like, popular? Yeah. Why?”

“No reason.”

Max strolled out of the diner, hearing Clarice’s laughter behind her along with Steve’s bewildered, “What? What does that mean?”

She opened the car door to Billy’s head already turned toward her. “Lively night,” he observed.

“It’s the holiday season,” she made by way of explanation. After setting her bag down by her feet, she peeked at Billy’s gaze leaving the diner while the car accelerated. He drove with his hand on the bottom of the steering wheel tonight, instead of his customary top. “Good day?”

“Yeah,” he answered indifferently.

She tested it by turning on the radio. Billy did not change the station.

* * *

“Cinnamon buns,” Steve muttered to nobody. He scoured his small kitchen to take inventory of everything he had while the locksmith replaced his locks. An unlikely miracle: his doorknob being weak enough that the men just broke those components, instead of requiring his entire doorjamb to be replaced. Steve paid extra for a deadbolt and chain, and the locksmith agreed to two-inch screws to hold it all together instead of the customary—and weaker—quarter inch.

He wanted nothing more than to shower and pass out after his shift at the vineyard, but he made a list of things he needed for Robin’s favorite breakfast/dessert, and then called Hargrove’s lawyer.

“Good evening, Mr. Harrington.”

“Hi. I know you’re not the right person to ask this,” he pitched, but by this point, she knew when to bring him to a halt.

“Wait a moment. Have you not been given a contact?”

“Let’s pretend I don’t know what that is, and the answer’s no.”

He managed to get a coughed laugh from her. “It’s the phone number you may use to contact your employer. Indirectly, of course. It’s probably the same number that will be used to contact you.”

“The summoning spell,” he scoffed before he replied, “I haven’t been summoned yet or given a number. Does this mean I’m fired?”

“I highly doubt it,” she remarked flatly. “Have you checked your phone since Saturday? Was a new number not put in there after you got it back from security?”

“Uh. No?” he admitted while holding his phone close to his face so he could talk, listen, and scroll through his phone book without destroying their privacy with the speaker. “I didn’t bring my phone.”

A pause. Then, “I see,” on her end. On a lighter note. “Can I call you right back?”

A weak, “Sure?” seeped out of him and he heard the soft click of the call disconnecting.

In the meantime, the locksmith finished his work. Steve paid him, thanked him for coming out for such a late appointment, and tipped him like his father had taught him. What a luxury, being able to tip people what they were actually owed.

His phone rang while he readied for the shower. He answered with a toothbrush in his mouth.

“Okay, Steve. You will receive a text message sometime tonight. You can save that number as your Contact. Now, what was the question you wanted to ask in the first place?”

“Um.” He didn’t know what rings this woman had to jump through for him but he ploughed ahead. “If I were to bring groceries through security…would they be confiscated?”

Her customary pause followed. When she next spoke, he could hear a smile in her voice. “Give me the list. I’ll pass it along.”

Steve wasn’t sure if she was laughing at him or not. He was taking his job seriously, right? Cooking was a proven a component of playing boyfriend, so damn it, Steve would make that ridiculous magazine condo smell like the best cinnamon buns in existence—

His phone vibrated on the bathroom counter, and he looked at the message from an unknown number.

_Is this list correct?_

_Ground Cinnamon – Dark Brown Sugar – Vegan Butter – Powdered Sugar – Salt – Raw Cane Sugar – Almond Milk – Yeast – Bread Flour – Eggs – Vanilla Extract – Cream Cheese._

Steve replied that it was everything unless they were willing to put out for a stand mixer. Then he figured…it’s not the full boyfriend experience unless he were a little annoying.

* * *

There was mixer.

And a rolling pin, wooden spoons, and a stack of glass baking dishes, as well as a cast iron skillet.

“It would’ve been easier if you just said what you wanted to make,” Billy teased. The arm he held behind Steve’s lumbar pulled him in a little; Steve let himself be tugged against the stylish, dusky-blue sweater sagging a little around Billy’s throat. Leave it to this guy to wear a thousand dollar frumpy sweater, and to look better than fresh baked goods while he was at it.

Steve hadn’t even taken his coat off yet; he just stood mutely in the kitchen, taking it all in.

Tomatoes, red onions, and lemons sat in a bowl in the center of the island counter.

He’d added those to the list because the petty corner of his brain wanted to see color in the place. Now he felt concern over whether or not they’d ever get used. It only just now occurred to Steve that this might not be the primary place in which Billy lived. It was just their meeting place.

“Been craving cinnamon buns.”

“Yeah?” Billy released his waist to start unloading the canvas grocery bags. “From scratch?”

“I’m a bag of tricks,” Steve teased, moving to hang his jacket on the hooks by the door—

“That can go in the closet. Change into something comfortable…since we’re dealing with yeast here.”

Billy scrutinized the little packets and Steve did as he was kindly told. He wondered if it was part of the illusion: leaving no clues out that implied he had to leave. Either way, he walked into the living room to the surprise of the furniture being mildly rearranged. The kitten’s playpen now stood beside the glass wall looking out into the courtyard, illuminated for Steve to be able to see little Onyx chowing down on some wet food.

All the doors in the condo were open apart from the door Steve internally labeled, _Billy’s Office_. So he strolled right into the bedroom and its walk-in closet. After hanging up his coat, he ruminated on his options—there were already more pieces of clothing than last week. He could only guess Billy had taken his red sweater as a hint and provided more colored options.

Steve changed into dark grey sweatpants and a pastel pink sweatshirt. Checking himself in the full-length mirror on the door, he liked how the pink went with his hair. He tucked some of it behind his ears, making a mental note to add hair clips to the next grocery list…and maybe go shopping for new clothes when Robin arrived in the city.

 _Focus, Harrington_.

In the living room, he scooped Onyx up in passing, causing a disjointed meow to burst from his small body. Billy laughed as Steve cooed apologies and brought him into the kitchen.

“Does anything need to be in the fridge?” Billy asked, taking Onyx from him.

“No, room temperature is better.”

“Why vegan butter and almond milk but regular eggs and cream cheese?”

Steve couldn’t very well relay the long debate he’d had with Robin over these things. He trimmed it down to, “Vegan cream cheese hasn’t caught up yet.”

Billy made a face caught between a confused grimace and an amused smirk. Steve obviously wasn’t vegan after a pigs-in-a-blanket breakfast, but he let it go. “Tell me what to do.”

“If you want to measure three cups of flour, that’d be great. And, uh…plug this thing in? Where are your sockets?”

Billy answered by lifting a panel in the island that Steve had thought was a drawer. A row of electrical sockets waited inside. Steve puckered his lips over a fascinated sound that made Billy pause to laugh so flour didn’t cloud the space.

Steve hadn’t intended to bring a team-building exercise to work. He just wanted a task that could occupy him for most of the time, but as he microwaved milk for the yeast…he realized he _liked_ this. The way Billy announced, “Cat on the floor, plant your feet,” when he set Onyx down, and took the bowl of milk from him to mix sugar and yeast into it while Steve handled the eggs and mixer.

The way he took one look at the stand mixer’s manual and threw it away, trusting Steve to manage it.

And the way he poked the dough regardless of Steve piping, “It’s not ready!” and getting a fingertip of extremely sticky dough for it.

“ _Stop_ ,” Steve failed to scold through his giggles as Billy kept poking into the mixing bowl. “We won’t have any dough left if you keep doing that.”

Wiping yet another glob off his fingers, Billy sassed, “They’re cinnamon buns, how much gluten structure do they need?”

“Knead?” Steve’s eyes widened theatrically.

Billy realized what he’d said and his features went slack as he slowly rolled his eyes. Before he could comment, though, Steve hip checked him, bumping him a half-step aside. “You wanna get a bowl ready?”

Billy retaliated by yanking Steve with him, arms snugly around Steve’s waist. It was kind of a shock, how easily he moved him. “It’s already in a bowl.”

“It’s supposed to go into a different bowl to rise.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Baking rules. It needs to go into an oiled bowl.”

“You didn’t put lube on your list.”

Steve’s hands went to the counter as Billy released him to open his pantry—a fancy shelf that slid out of the wall. Steve felt his face dial up about twenty degrees as he giggled like a high schooler, “My mistake.”

“I have some. Is olive okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s fine.” Steve swallowed dryly and found the cups cabinet to fill at the fridge spout—

Onyx yelled near his feet, inducing him to kneel down and tilt the glass precariously for him to sip. “What? Is mine better than yours or something?”

Billy scoffed from where he moved a oil-soaked paper towel around a popcorn bowl, “Clearly.”

Trapped as he was for the cat to drink his water, Billy managed the task of transferring the dough into the bowl and covered it with plastic wrap. “How long does this rise?” he asked on his way to the sink.

“Like an hour,” Steve replied, returning to his feet and trying to wave the cat away. “Move, you little tyrant. Let’s go.”

Billy finished washing his hands and followed them into the living room, where he turned on the television. “Pick a movie: _Princess Bride_ or _Lost Boys_.”

Steve’s head perked up from where he had sat on the floor to play with Onyx. “Uh…”

“You’re looking at _Princess Bride_ , aren’t you?”

“Vampires are fine!”

“You like romance stories, don’t you?” Billy taunted.

“I think it’s the perfect mixture of romantic, hilarious, and corny effects.”

“And _The Lost Boys_ isn’t?”

“You’re just fighting to fight,” Steve countered.

Billy smirked, and then softened, “I’ve never actually seen it. I heard the girl’s name is Buttercup and assumed it was too cheesy to be good.”

Steve smiled as Onyx rolled off his lap. “I’ve never seen _Lost Boys_ , either. I’ve heard there’s an unreasonable number of attractive people in it, though.”

“I guess we’ve got a marathon on our hands. You first.”

Onyx’s full belly soon put him to sleep, stretched across both of their thighs. Whether Billy’s hand cradled the cat’s spine or rested on Steve’s leg, it didn’t really matter, close as they were while the movie played. They only paused to check on the dough, and Steve rolled it out while Billy mixed cinnamon and brown sugar together. After they rolled it up and cut it into thick slices, they resumed the movie while the buns did their second rise in the baking dish. Steve gave Billy the whisk attachment to lick the frosting while they started the second film and waited for the buns too cool.

When they finally feasted, Onyx got to lick frosting off of Steve’s finger, and Billy agreed with Wesley over the tragedy of Buttercup’s death ruining a pair of good breasts.

“Why is this movie actually good?”

Steve laughed, “Kissing books are always good.”

However, after two movies and a full batch of homemade cinnamon buns, Steve gauged the time of day by the sky illuminating the courtyard. Just as he began to wonder how to excuse himself to go home and get ready for the diner, Billy beat him to it.

He emerged from the bedroom with a black coat on his arm. “There’s a large container in the cabinet next to the fridge you can use for the buns. I need to head out.”

“Oh! Okay,” Steve exhaled, rising to put Onyx in the playpen. He walked Billy to the kitchen, wiping his hands on his sweatpants while the latter donned his coat.

He could feel Billy’s eyes on him before his voice dropped into his chest, low and soft. “Come here.”

He drew Steve into a hug by his waist. He’d had his hair up all day for baking, but now Steve’s face brushed against soft, broken curls and waves. His held onto his hands to keep them from doing something stupid. Like touching those waves or cradling Billy’s head.

Warm palms moved over his spine, making him understand why Onyx fell asleep so easily in Billy’s hands. It occurred to Steve that the last thing he should feel is safe or comfort. But winters alone in the city were not exactly kind.

Unsure how to break the moment or his own thoughts, he saw an opportunity in a deep ache in his spine. “Could you, um, squeeze a little and lift me up?”

Billy stood still as he absorbed that and then Steve felt the thrill of being lifted right as his own weight stretched his vertebrae. A clear, yet dull _pop_ moved between them. Steve sighed heavily, resting his chin on Billy’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Billy purred, rubbing the middle of his back. “You know where the ibuprofen is.”

“Yeah,” Steve both accepted and refused as he eased himself to stand on his own. “See you later.”

“Mm,” Billy hummed, crooking a finger under his chin to bring him back for a kiss. Steve’s eyes closed against the plush warmth easily, feeling the pad of Billy’s thumb against his jaw.

Like their first kiss, the second ended just as chaste and brief. And left Steve a little bit winded.

After the door shut behind his boss, Steve scrubbed his hands over his face a little roughly. _Get it together, Harrington._

Then he put everything away in the kitchen, changed back into his own clothes, and then made sure Onyx had clean litter and water before leaving the building.

* * *

Steve had the highly important role of holding a dish for Clarice to dump pothos discards into. One by one, she stood on the booths to attend to her plants: picking out dried leaves, measuring soil height, and watering.

Steve accepted a pair of yellowed leaves for his dish while Max ranted, “I’m so pissed that I have to go to my mom’s for a stupid dinner.”

“Cut her some slack, baby doll, she pushed you out of her body,” her grandmother both chided and consoled. Steve grimaced slightly behind her, sharing in Max’s disgruntlement.

“She wants me to meet her new boyfriend. As if this one’s any different…”

Steve picked up, “She’s has a type?”

“Yeah. Boring losers.”

“One of those boring losers was your daddy,” Clarice reminded.

“Dad’s not a loser, and I’d rather fly to California to be with him. But I can’t.”

Steve frowned a little at the quick addition, but Clarice openly supplied as she used his shoulder to step out of the booth, “She loved your daddy like a real first love should be: fast and hot like a firework. It’s completely natural that they burnt out early. It’s also natural for her to play it safe after a less than friendly marriage.”

 _Oof_ , Steve kept to himself. Aloud, he offered, “How’s the food? That’s the real question.”

Max answered, deadpan, “She can make, like, two things.”

“Oh.”

“They’re good, but my options are breakfast casserole and steak pot pie.”

Steve laughed while he tilted his head, “That’s kind of a wide difference.”

“How hard is it to mash potatoes and open a can of beans—?”

“Max,” Clarice drawled, sitting on the next table to clip off an errant vine. “Your momma loves you and is running these men by you because you come first. You raise so much as a yellow flag, and they’re gone.”

“I doubt that,” Max grumbled, crossing her arms.

Steve tried to encourage, “What are the chances that your mom’s dating a cook? This might be the best Thanksgiving you ever have.”

Max’s eyes wandered while she pondered that and then countered, “You complain about cooks at your job all the time.”

His jaw went slack before he quickly picked it up. “Yeah, but—”

“Closeted psychopaths, is what you said.”

“Okay, _listen_ , smartie,” he sassed while she giggled and Clarice smiled with a glance outside.

“Baby, your ride’s here.”

“What was that?” Max prompted as she went to grab her coat from the booth they usually occupy.

“Nothing. Have a very merry boring Thanksgiving,” Steve retorted, and then quickly pinched her jacket sleeve before she got entangled in it. He laughed, “Why do you always do this?”

“Shut up.”

“Okay,” he laughed inside a cough.

Clarice warned on Max’s way out, “There’s black ice!”

“I know,” the latter moaned as she let her own weight swing her around the door—

“I got it. Thanks,” a new voice said.

Max’s eyes darted between the young woman and the hand on the door. “Oh—No, we’re closing.”

“That’s okay! I’m just here for Steve. Is he still here?”

At the sound of his name and enough of the new voice for him to recognize it, Steve charged toward the door, setting his plant discards on a table. “Robin?”

“Hey!” she breathed, rushing past Max.

“ROBIN!”

He threw his arms wide open to catch her, thoroughly knocking the wind out of her. “Ugh-Oh, shit—Steve!”

“You’re early!” he exclaimed, intent on squishing the winter’s chill out of her coat. When he realized his coworker had stuck around he turned Robin around. “Max! This is Robin!”

The teen waved awkwardly from the door. “Hey. Hometown friend? So…Steve didn’t just spring out of a lake?”

“Oh, Hawkins has lakes,” Robin nodded, and when she met Steve’s dumbfounded gape, she doubled over with laughter.

Max smiled, genuinely happy for them but pointed over her shoulder. “I gotta go…”

Steve recovered and waved her out. “Yeah, yeah, get outta here. Don’t get sick.”

Max traipsed over the pavement to reach the car. Billy watched the diner as she settled in. “Your busboy have a girlfriend?”

“No,” she said without looking up, trying to get her feet out of her backpack straps. “Hometown friend. She’s here for Thanksgiving.”

Her brother said quietly, “Is this the first _hometown_ friend you’ve seen visit him?”

She finally looked up. As ever, Billy was illegible…but he wasn’t driving away. His eyes lingered on the diner, steady like glass. Max peeked at Steve and Robin talking to Clarice, Robin clearly hitting it off as well as Steve first had.

And Max…didn’t know what to make of this situation. She turned back to her brother. “Billy?”

He blinked, irises flicking to her before he shook his head and moved the gearshift. “Nothing,” he said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy: he doesn't hug me like that ç_ç  
> Me: that's because you're scary as heck and that dumpling has ptsd. Let him cook, damn.
> 
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